“Thanky!” said the freckly one. “I mout do that too.” He did. His voice had a nasal smack to it which struck the sergeant as being alien. “I didn't ketch the name,” he said. “Mine's Bloomfield—-Christian name, Ezra H.”
“Mine's Bagby,” stated the sergeant—“late of King's Hell Hounds. You've probably heard of that command—purty nigh everybody in these parts has.”
“Veteran myself,” said Mr. Bloomfield briskly. “Served four years and two months. Enlisted at fust call for volunteers.”
“Started in kind of early myself,” said the sergeant, mechanically catching for the moment the other's quality of quick, clipped speech. “But say, look here, pardner,” he added, resuming his own natural tone, “whut's the reason you ain't out yonder at that there Colosseum with all the other boys this evenin'?”
A whimsical squint brought the red eyelashes dose together.
“Well,” stated Mr. Bloomfield, rummaging with a deliberate hand in the remote inner fastnesses of his whiskers, “I couldn't scursely say that I b'long out there.” Then he halted, as if there was no more to be said.
“You told me you served all the way through, didn't you?” asked the sergeant, puzzled.
“So I told you and so I did,” said Mr. Bloomfield; “but I didn't tell you which side it was I happened to be a-servin' on. Twentieth Indiana Infantry—that's my regiment, and a good smart one it was too.”
“Oh!” said Sergeant Bagby, slightly shocked by the suddenness of this enlightenment—“Oh! Well, set down anyway, Mr. Bloomfield. Excuse me—you're already settin', ain't you?”
For a fraction of a minute they contemplated each other, Sergeant Bagby being slightly flustered and Mr. Bloomfield to all appearances perfectly calm. The sergeant cleared his throat, but it was the visitor who spoke: